Heavy Dirty Soul
by khaleesimaka
Summary: Going off his medication was Soul's first mistake. His second mistake is allowing his depression to take control. He conceals and hides his slowly deteriorating mind from those around him and pretends like everything is the same when it's not. But when death starts to be his best option, who can truly blame him. Lucky for him, Wes is a concerned brother.
1. Pharaoh's Dance

A/N: This is one of my entries for Resbang 2016. This fic was so hard for me to write since it focuses on Wes and Soul's relationship more than romance like I normally write, but it was also fun for me to explore the brothers. I also couldn't have gotten through it without the support and patience of my artist partner therealflurrin whose art can be found on tumblr. She was such a joy to work with and the ideas she brought to this fic were all wonderful. I love the art she created for it; she did such a marvelous job on it so definitely check it out. I also want to thank tenbrisael for betaing the first half of this fic before life happened. I appreciate your input a ton.

Warnings for this fic: depression, suicidal thoughts

Also, the title of this fic is from the song of the same name by Twenty One Pilots, and the chapter titles are titles from Miles Davis' Bitches Brew album that I listened to while writing this fic.

I hope y'all enjoy it :)

* * *

It starts out like every past downward spiral he's had: with a nightmare.

Except this one's different.

Instead of sitting, staring at the ivory keys of a piano in front of an audience, he's standing in a checkered room with curtains cascading over the walls around him. There's a piano, which is unsurprising. He supposes the instrument is part of his own internal fears and he is doomed to have it looming over his head for the rest of his life, even if he's chosen a different path than the one his parents want for him. The piano stays because it's more than just a symbol of his stage fright; it's a reminder of his childhood and the anxiety induced nightmares that come now.

There's also a small stand with a record player on top of it. The music that plays from it scratches and repeats itself on an endless loop that grates his nerves and confuses him even more. It doesn't make sense, which he supposes is the point of dreams. But if that were the case, he should be having the dream he's familiar with, the one he's had for as long as he can remember. Not this new one.

He glances around the room, searching for any other sign of life other than him.

For another ever present _thing_ in his dreams like the piano.

When he comes up short, Soul moves over to the record player to stop the music. It's smooth jazz, similar to what should be playing in a cafe rather than... rather than whatever this room is meant to represent. Not the particular jazz he's a fan of. He prefers the cool style of jazz like Miles Davis produces, the kind that sets his soul at ease and calms his ever working brain.

The moment he touches the record, however, a voice sounds and halts him.

"Now, now, Soul. Is that any way to act when you're in _my_ domain?"

Soul knows the voice. He's become far too familiar with it over the last ten years to not know it, and the way his skin crawls is enough for him to beg himself to wake up.

But somehow he manages to keep his cool when he speaks.

"Almost thought you weren't gonna show up," he says, digging his hands in his pockets.

Has he been wearing a suit this whole time?

"I'm hurt you'd think I'd leave you like that, my boy."

Without bothering to look at the demon, Soul asks, "What do you mean this is your domain?"

"Ah, Soul, my boy. Ever the questioning one, aren't you?" A pause. "I mean exactly what I said: this is my home I've built in that little head of yours. Don't you like it?"

Snorting, he says, "Could use with a different color scheme. Though, I guess red and black does suit you." Soul turns around to face the demon and sees the imp swinging his hips and snapping his fingers out of tune with the music. "God, you're an awful dancer."

The demon only smiles as it makes its way over to him; it moves slowly but with a menacing glint in its pure white eyes. "You're not gonna ask me why you're here? Why I've come after five years?"

"No," he says, taking a step back.

"Course not, 'cause you already know." The imp's grin widens to expose a full set of sharp teeth. "Poor little Soul boy's gone off his meds and stopped going to therapy. What would your brother think of you?"

"Wes doesn't need to know."

"Little Soul boy's going down a different path now 'cause he's scared of being the family fuck up again. Can't handle all the stress of money and student loans and being jobless. Been a hard year for ya, hasn't it? Getting rejection email after rejection email, no interviews, nothing. Moving in with your brother lasting longer than you expected. It was only a matter of time before you gave in and let yourself go."

"What are you-"

Soul's words are cut short as the demon raises a long red finger at him, standing in front of him now. A pointed claw emerges from its finger, and the demon presses it right above Soul's breastbone. His heart hammers in his chest, the air around him suffocating and warmer than it had been moments before. He grips the stand behind him and tries to lean away from the imp, but finds himself rooted on the spot.

All he can do is scream as the demon's claw slices through his outfit and scorches his skin as it tears down. Down over the oblique scar permanently embedded over his chest. He screams and screams and screams because it's all he can do; none of his limbs are moving no matter how much he begs them to.

Except, even though he's screaming and his throat aches, there's no sound.

No sound save for the shitty jazz music and the imp's maniacal laughter.

* * *

Wes barges into the room without knocking, without making any announcement he's coming in, and jumps toward the bed in a frenzied mess. His actions are swift as he pins Soul to the bed and pinches the bridge of his nose. He ignores the hot, blood-boiling scream coming from his brother. Fear and worry are the only two emotions fueling his sleep-deprived brain, and his focus is solely on waking the boy up.

"Soul, wake up," he calmly says, voice hoarse.

Clearing his throat, he repeats himself.

"Soul, wake up. It's just a dream. You're safe, I promise. It can't get you."

It takes a second, but Soul's eyes snap open and he gasps for air. Wes removes his fingers from Soul's nose, keeps his forearm pinned over Soul's chest, and cautiously watches his brother, judging his movements as he does so.

Soul's gaze is fuzzy and unclear. The fear is evident on his face, though; his cheeks are flushed and his mouth stark white like his hair. Blank, crimson eyes dart around the room as Soul tries to catch his breath, and Wes can feel Soul's pulse pounding against his arm. He wonders what kind of nightmare his brother had endured this time around, how long it had been before Wes woke up, and how long it would have gone on had he not come barging in.

Slowly moving away from his brother after a minute has passed, Wes leans over and turns on the lamp sitting on his nightstand and waits.

Another minute passes before Soul fully calms down.

"Wes?" Soul asks, his voice dry like he had cotton balls stuck in his mouth.

"I'm here." Wes sets his hand over his brother's wrist and squeezes to reassure him. "You're safe now. You want some hot chocolate?"

Bringing up the old childhood drink seems to bring Soul's focus back and he warily shakes his head.

"N-no. The demon, he'll... He won't... Never was a fan... Too dangerous..."

The choppiness of his sentences sets another wave of worry to cascade over his heart, and his mouth somberly smiles at his brother. He hates seeing him in this state, has always hated the nightmares and terrors he's endured since he was thirteen, but there isn't much he can do about them except comfort Soul, to remind him he still has a fan in Wes even if others have strayed from his support system.

"Come." Wes tugs on Soul's shirt to take it off. "Let's take this off and go back to bed, yeah?"

His brother doesn't fight him as he slips the shirt over his head and tosses it on the ground. He still doesn't fight when Wes gently pushes him back on the mattress. Grabbing the old stuffed shark that's God knows how old by now, he hands it to Soul who doesn't hesitate to hug it to him. The image of his brother cuddling an old stuffed animal is both amusing and endearing, but given the circumstances, it still manages to crack his heart.

"Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning," Wes soothingly tells him.

"Sleep... Morning... Good," Soul mumbles before dozing off again.

Wes stays there for another minute or two, watching his brother fall into a peaceful slumber, before slinking back to his own bed. As he climbs into bed, he counts the years since Soul last woke him up because of a nightmare, and calculates five years have gone by. Five years since Wes convinced his brother to seek help, five years since Soul started taking antidepressants, and five years since they both moved out of their parents' home.

It doesn't explain why they've come back, though.

The last thought in his head is one he chooses to ignore and refuse to acknowledge, because his brother isn't that much of an idiot.

 _He's stopped taking his medication_.

* * *

The next morning, sitting at the dining table, Soul spoons cereal into his mouth while cradling his head. He has the worst headache in the history of headaches, and on top of that his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls. His nightmare from the night before left him tired and exhausted and fear-ridden. When he closes his eyes, all he sees is white eyes surrounded by black and red, along with a villainous grin marked with sharp teeth. His skin still crawls even thinking about the nightmare; goosebumps prickle the nape of his neck each time he remembers it.

It doesn't surprise him, though, the nightmare.

With his meds gone and his aversion of going back to therapy, it was a matter of time before the imp and the dreams came back. They're like a fifth limb to him, something that's always been a part of him that he's learned to deal with in the past. Yes, he went through the last five years being a productive member of society without going to bed worrying they'll show up and remind him he's still a worthless human being, but maybe it's what he needs right now.

Not praise or a rainbow.

Maybe he needs a few rainy and dark days right now.

"Good morning," Wes chirps as he enters the kitchen. Soul's headache worsens like a hangover, except it's in response to how loud and obnoxious his brother's peppiness is. "Sleep well?"

Soul glares at Wes' back. He damn well knows Soul didn't sleep well.

Even though he had been out of it when Wes interrupted his dream, he still is aware Wes _had_ woken him up. He would be more surprised if he hadn't. Ever the loyal brother to come help rescue Soul from a horrible nightmare; that was the type of brother he was and still is to this day. Yet another shining example of everything Soul isn't.

"I have a fucking massive headache. What do you think?" he grumbles.

"Well, you were never much of a morning person anyways," Wes says, pouring himself a bowl of cereal.

"That doesn't mean jack shit when it comes to the headache, and you know it."

"I'm trying to lighten the mood, Soul. You should try it sometime. Maybe it'll do you some good."

"Don't try to lighten anything, Wes. I'm really not feeling it today."

"Understood," Wes says. He sets his bowl across the table from Soul and sits down, digging into it right away.

They both eat their breakfast in silence. Soul scrolls through the Tumblr app on his phone, liking posts to reblog later when he's on his laptop and nose laughing when necessary. Across from him, Wes fiddles with his own phone, no doubt checking his calendar and emails for the day.

As a skilled psychologist, it's Wes' duty to attend to patients and double check which ones he's seeing that day. Soul doesn't know much about them, but being as he's seen his fair share of therapists (more sporadically during his youth compared to his adult life), he knows each case is different and can't be attended to the same way. He knows his brother is good at what he does because he's been doing it since they were kids. A large part of why Wes entered the profession, Soul feels, has to do with him and the struggles he experienced as a kid.

Back then, there weren't many therapists his parents trusted to keep their youngest son's issue under the rug, no matter how often they promised they couldn't relay any information to anyone other than those Soul said gave their authorization to. But this led him to have more troubled nights than necessary, which meant more nightmares and night terrors, and since Wes' bedroom had been next door to his, it was always him who came running to help wake him. Him who stayed up an hour until Soul safely went back to sleep. It had also been Wes who convinced their parents to settle on a therapist because Soul needed help.

So, it came to no surprise to Soul when Wes informed them all he was going to get his doctorate degree and become a clinical psychologist.

It does surprise Soul, however, that his brother hasn't connected the dots that he's stopped seeking help.

Rinsing his bowl out and setting it in the sink to be cleaned later, Soul stretches and stifles a yawn. He doesn't have much to do for the day except search for more jobs, apply for more positions, and pray someone calls him back. Maybe he can sneak in a long nap before doing so.

"Got any big plans for the day?" Wes asks, not bothering to look up from his phone.

"Nothing 'sides the usual."

"Welp, I wish you luck." He scoots his chair back and does the same to his bowl that Soul did. When he finishes, he places his hand on Soul's shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure something'll come your way. Just gotta keep applying."

"Yeah, thanks."

Soul would never admit it - not in private, not to Wes, not to anyone - but his brother's words have an effect on him and warm his cold, dark, pessimistic heart, because deep down, he doesn't believe them. He still believes himself to be a family failure, the loser. A nobody. He thinks his father was right all along, that Soul would never amount to anything in his chosen profession and he'd be doomed to go crawling back to the Evans name just to make a quick buck.

And that's a thought that leaves a sour taste in his mouth, because fuck him if he's ever going back to that house, to that lifestyle. He'd sooner be dead than go back there.

When the door to their apartment closes, Soul sulks back to his room for a nap.

* * *

On his way to work, Wes replays his morning conversation with Soul over and over in his head like a broken record. He tries to digest every bit of information his brother gave him and determine what's wrong with him because he knows the nightmares shouldn't be back. If Soul is doing everything _right_ , he shouldn't be having the dreams and night terrors again. That's what the medication is for, that's what antidepressants are meant to do. They're there to vanquish the demon that resides in Soul and help him be a functional human being.

 _Unless, he's off the medication_ , a small voice reminds him.

But as quickly as it came, Wes shakes it out of his head because he refuses to acknowledge even the possibility.

He knows his brother, and he knows Soul isn't an idiot. Not completely, at least.

Sure, he's done some pretty idiotic things in the past, but that was when they were children. Soul's an adult now, and he knows better. He knows the risks of going off the antidepressants and not seeing his therapist; Wes had helped him see the light when he was going through his own courses and guided him in that aspect of his mental health.

Depression mixed with anxiety is detrimental to his brother's health. They had both seen the affects it put on him with the added stress of being an Evans and the tireless expectations of their father. It ate Soul from the inside out, made him miserable, and stole away his youth. He had the same memories Wes did, only his were a hundred times worse than what Wes can ever imagine because Soul had been gifted with the short end of the stick and suffered more than Wes.

So he of course he knows better than to quit his anti-depressants cold turkey.

However, as the day wears on, he still has a bad taste in his mouth things aren't alright to the point that he contemplates calling Soul's therapist even though he knows it'll put him at a dead end. Therapists have a strict patient confidentiality they live by. Releasing anyone's information - even to a family member and fellow psychologist - is grounds for removal of their license practice, and no sane person wants that.

Which leaves Wes empty-handed and still questioning what can possibly be wrong even though he knows. He just refuses to acknowledge it.

It isn't until he's locking the door to his practice he accepts it.

He digests the thought on his way home and tries to come up with a practical solution to help his brother to get back on the train, but comes up short. Soul isn't the type of person who willingly opens up to someone. Hell, it probably took the kid years before he told his therapist anything personal, if even that. His brother is a man of few words and little trust; he's a hard kid to figure out and an even harder one to crack open.

Being direct and vocal about his fall from the wagon is hopeless unless Wes wants Soul to shut him out and toss the key in molten lava, which he doesn't. There has to be another tactic he can use to get Soul to talk to him about the issue and maybe help him out. He just needs to figure out what it is first.

That night, over dinner, Wes keeps casual conversation with his brother - asking him the usual questions about his day and trying to keep it as civil as humanly possible - while also observing him. He uses the same techniques he does when he's seeing a patient. Judges his position, his behaviors, if anything seems off compared to normal, but finds nothing out of the ordinary. It almost seems as if Soul knows what he's doing and refusing to give him any more information than he needs, but that isn't the case.

Wes knows this because like his brother, he's good at pulling the veil over his own facial expressions.

When they go to bed that night, Wes tells Soul goodbye like normal, but leaves the bathroom light on so enough of it illuminates his bedroom connecting to it. Soul won't turn the lamp on by his bed because if he knows his brother (which he does), he refuses to address he has a problem with the dark. Especially if he is off his medication and struggling with the demons of his nightmares. Wes also leaves his door open a crack just in case there's another bout of screaming tonight.

He takes all the proper precautions to help his brother because that's what he does. It's how he's always been since they were little. Big brother looking out for his younger brother; it's an innate behavior in him he can't shake off no matter how much Soul wishes he could.

* * *

Something his undergraduate career didn't prepare him for is how fucking hard applying for jobs is when it isn't at McDonalds or Toys R Us.

 _After careful consideration of your skills and qualifications, the department has selected another applicant whose skills and qualifications more closely match their needs_ , reads his latest rejection email.

He scoffs at the word choice behind it - a generic sentence he's read about a thousand times and has seen smeared black in his dreams about a dozen. It's a bunch of bullshit. The position he applied for was an entry level job where the requirement was to have at least a high school degree. A job he should have at least received an interview for.

"Fuck," he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

Soul stares at the email, the words blending together until his vision is a swirl of black and white. He wonders what Wes will think of this when he tells him - if he ever tells him because honestly, he isn't sure he wants to gripe more about another rejection. His brother's heard enough of his complaining and self-pity for the last that Soul's more than positive he's tired of hearing it by now. Isn't that what everyone thinks when he goes through one of his bouts like this? They all eventually get tired of him and dump him for someone who's more fun and interesting to be around.

It's only a matter of time before Wes deserts him too, right?

His phone buzzes where it sits on his desk. He glances over to see a text from Liz, his best friend and Wes' on-again-off-again girlfriend.

[[ you free to get some lunch? my treat ]]

[[ depends. where at? ]]

[[ I could go for Chipotle? ]]

[[ sure. what time? ]]

[[ I go to lunch in half an hour. can you make it before then? ]]

[[ duh, Liz ]]

[[ see you there :) and leave the sarcasm at home please! ]]

Locking his phone, he sets it down and closes his laptop before going to shower real quick and get dressed. His hands feel dirty and grimy like he's been touching paper all day, and his hair is a whole other story. He doesn't need to touch it to know it's greasy and smells like dog shit considering it's been two days since he last took a bath. If even that. Honestly, it might be longer considering he can't remember the last time he even _had_ to take a shower.

The last he remembers touching water was before his nightmares started, before he dumped the last of his medication in the trash, which has been a few days. Usually his hygiene isn't that bad, though. Even Liz knows he showers like a maniac and enjoys being clean, and she doesn't even live with him. Realizing how long it's been leaves him feeling dirtier than before along with even more disgusted with himself. Not only is he a useless member of society who can't find a job, he's a useless member who can't even shower on a daily basis.

But what's even the point of cleaning himself up?

No one's called him for a job interview. He has no real reason to leave the apartment unless it's to get food which is code for fast food which means he can go to the drive through for that; no need letting others smell his funk. There aren't many people he sees on a daily basis since he stays there most of the days. When was the last time he saw the sun and it wasn't through the cracks of his blinds?

He makes a mental note he needs to shower more often again.

And maybe add in getting out of the apartment at least once a week. Sun will do him good, right? It's there to raise his spirits.

Unsurprisingly, he has his doubts about that when he steps outside and the damn sunlight burns his eyes and blinds him temporarily. His heart and soul right away craves the darkness of his room with its artificial lighting to help him see. But, even so, he trudges down the sidewalk and heads over to the Chipotle that's conveniently between where Liz works and where he lives. The brisk autumn air nips at his face, the sunlight doing nothing to warm him.

A typical fall for their side of the continent.

It hasn't always been his home, though. The outskirts of New York City are different compared to living there and living in his hometown in Connecticut. Out here, it's much quieter and less nosey neighbors who have to be in your business every second of every day. He has more room to think and breathe; more space for him to lose himself at without the hustle and bustle to set his nerves on edge. A nice setting for someone in his situation.

Or someone who isn't so weighed down by self-pity and loathing.

Soul finds Liz sitting at a table, her taco bowl still whole telling him it hasn't been long.

"Sorry," she says when he walks up to her. "I'm really hungry and couldn't wait for you."

"I'm late by five minutes."

"And my stomach was hurting from hunger." She waves her hand in the direction of the counter. "Hurry up and order your burrito. I'll wait for you."

"Sure you will," he says under his breath.

She won't wait for him because Liz isn't the type of girl who's that considerate. There is only one thing she'll put before her own needs which is her sister; everything and everyone else could go to hell as far as she's concerned. That's why her and Wes get along so well. They both put their younger siblings first and foremost even though deep down they're as selfish and self-centered as an only child.

Though, that thought isn't completely accurate. Liz, like Wes, expresses she cares through other, more subtle ways only a trained person can catch.

So when he goes back to the table to find her entree barely touched save for the chip she dips in the guacamole.

"Thanks for waiting," he says, setting down his bag with the burrito in it.

"Nice bag. Should've gotten the tray instead," Liz says, jutting her chin to the object in question.

"The girl didn't hear me say it was for here and not to go, and I didn't want to correct her."

"It's what I would've done."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not you."

"Yeah. I know." Liz piles the contents in her bowl into her tortilla before speaking again. "So how're things going? Any luck finding a job yet?"

He snorts in response.

"Take that as a no?"

"I've applied to probably over a hundred places in the last year and haven't had a single interview," he says between chewing. "Wes keeps saying it'll happen one day, but I still haven't seen that happen so, you know…"

Soul leaves the implication open for interpretation and shrugs.

"Well, you know there's always _one_ place you can apply to you. I'm sure I can talk Kid into hiring you. Our music teacher is retiring at the end of the school year, so-"

"I don't want your charity, Liz."

"It's not charity. It's helping you get your foot in the door, and news flash, buddy, you kinda need that right now seeing as nothing else is working for you."

Soul regrets ever leaving the house. Tough love was not on the menu when he woke up that morning, and it still isn't now. Liz must see it because she lays her hand on top of his and squeezes it reassuringly.

"I know that's not what you wanna hear, but it had to be said. Either by me or your brother, and knowing Wes, he hasn't done that yet." She leans back in her chair, hand sliding across the table and picking up her fork to stab at her meat. "Knowing him, he'll do it a little more gently and subtle."

A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he spots his opportunity to draw away from the subject of jobs.

"Do you miss him?" he asks, taking a bite out of his burrito.

"Wes?" She nods. "Ha, yeah, as far as a good fuck goes. Your brother always did know how to use his-"

"We're not talking about my brother's genitals over lunch, please."

"Right. Sorry." She rolls her eyes and gives him a sincere smile. "But your brother was always better at fucking than relationships. Too hung up on caring for his little brother. Which is something I can respect given Patti, but at some point it just gets too much."

"How is Patti?"

"She's good. Sends me a postcard from London once a month and Skype calls me every Saturday." Liz's tone grows solemn as she says, "I miss her like hell and worry for her every day, but she's happy over there."

"She still doing the art thing?"

"Like you wouldn't believe it. But you should really see her more current stuff," her eyes light up at that, and Soul is thankful he brought her sister into the conversation. "Text me a reminder later, and I'll send you some pictures of her pieces. I swear she's gonna end up in an art museum one day. She's gotten that good at it."

"I don't doubt that at all," Soul says, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth because of his friends enthusiasm.

He always did enjoy when she ranted about Patti. There's an aura of being proud and happy for her sister Soul finds endearing and sweet. It reminds him of when Wes talks about him and his music to complete strangers, though, he'll never admit it out loud.

They finish their lunch date about thirty minutes later. Liz asks him for his paper bag to put her leftovers in, but he crumpled it up and tells her to get her own damn bag. She punches him between the shoulder blades for it before going to the counter. He rubs the spot and pouts at her when she gets back, claiming one of these days he'll kick her ass for being so abusive which she responds with an _as if_. Soul doesn't even counter it because they both know he won't; he never was much of a fighter.

Before they part, Liz steals his phone and adds in a number she tells him is Kid's and he should call about the music teacher position. He tells her he'll think about it with no intention of doing so.

* * *

That night, he has another nightmare.

This one, like the one before it, is different as well.

He's standing in the middle of a church, moonlight shines in through the stained glass window, and shadows dance around him. Save for the moonlight, the inside of the church is dark and tinted in a purple hue that makes his skin crawl. What bugs him the most, though, is how eerily quiet it is. There's no scratchy jazz music, no sinister whispers in the darkness.

Nothing.

Nothing except silence.

Soul makes to move toward the lectern, but his feet firmly remain on the ground. Staring down at them, he tries again with no success. Fear bubbles in his stomach, claustrophobia clutching his lungs and squeezing and twisting them causing his breathing to come out in rapid bursts. He searches around him for any sign of life besides himself; he'll take anyone right now to help him make sense of this dream. Hell, he'll even take the stupid demon.

Calling out proves to be worthless as well. He screams and screams until his throat feels sore, but no sound has left him.

Bending over, Soul attempts to yank his feet from the ground as if it's a logical solution. It probably is if this were real life, except this a dream. A nightmare. Where nothing is real and nothing makes sense and no one is there to help him.

The silence of the church is broken.

Wood struggling against something echoes in the nave before it breathes out and shatters. Soul's gaze darts around in search of a source only to find it when the walls of a side room by the chancel burst open. A dark figure wearing a long dark cloak walks in, its face hidden behind a curtain of fuschia hair. It drags a long black and silver sword on the floor with sparks trailing behind it as it does. He doesn't understand why there are sparks - the floor is wood - but he doesn't question it.

Anything's possible in dreams.

Nightmares.

"Wh-who are you?" Soul asks, his voice coming back.

His question is ignored, though, as the figure continues its journey to the altar. It seems to almost glide across the front of the church, the shadows of the stained glass window dancing around their cloak. The length of its shadow stretches and stretches over the pews and aisles until it touches Soul's feet and pauses. Soul glances down at it, unsure of what's going on as if he knew before hand. His attention is drawn back to figure when it speaks.

"My blood is black," it says in a haunting, quiet voice.

"What?"

"My blood is black," it repeats.

"That's cool, but I don't know-"

Soul's throat closes around the sentence, growing stuffy and thick like cotton balls have been shoved down his esophagus. Soul's attention is drawn up to where black goo slowly bleeds through the walls before sliding down them to touch the floor. It should stop there, but it keeps going. The goo, or whatever it is, moves across the wood floor toward Soul, following the trail of the person's shadows, and touches his foot.

For a brief moment, Soul thinks it stops for good like the shade had done. He thinks he's in the clear.

How wrong he is.

It engulfs his shoes, slithers up his legs, waist, and stomach, and clamps around his arms to keep them in place. Soul's rapid breathing returns and his heart pounds against his chest. He throws his head back and screams and screams and screams for help. Unlike before, his voice bounces off the church's interior, a maniacal laugh joining it. The goo - which has the same texture and smell as blood - continues ascending up his body until it closes around his face and quiets his calls for help.

The last thing he hears is, "Embrace the madness."


	2. Bitches Brew

Moving purely on adrenaline, Wes jolts out of bed at the sound of raspy screaming coming from the next room over. His bare feet slap against the hardwood floor as he runs to Soul's room and bursts the door open. He pins his arm across his brother's chest and pinches the bridge of his nose, the act so familiar and second nature by now he despises it more than anything. Despises it because this shouldn't be happening anymore; he thought they had worked through Soul's nightmares and concurred his depression, but this is proof they haven't.

Soul's eyes snap open and he sucks in a hard breath.

Releasing Soul's nose, Wes moves off his brother and waits for him to gather his bearings. Soul blinks a few times, the low light from his lamp casting shadows over his face, before his glassy gaze falls on Wes. Wes leans forward and presses the back of his hand against his brother's forehead to check if he has a fever or not. He's clammy and warm, but it isn't alarming.

"You feeling okay?" Wes asks in a quiet tone.

His brother slowly moves away from his hand and groggily shakes his head.

"No, I'm… Where… Where am I?" Soul asks, his voice scratchy and tired. His brows knit together as he feels around at the bedsheets. He grips them tightly and brings them in toward him as if to make sure they're real. "What happened to the monster?"

The last question is so low Wes barely hears it. His heart stops for a millisecond when he remembers exactly what kind of nightmares Soul has - the drawings that used to be mixed with the typical ones of their family and poorly drawn animals coming to mind. He remembers the demon as red and black scribbles on paper, but the soulless whites of its eyes were enough to frighten even him when they were younger. Now he wonders what Soul saw this time to cause him to lose touch with reality.

"You're in your bedroom in our apartment," Wes tells him. "The monster isn't here, and it won't be coming back."

"Promise?"

It's such a simple word, one he's heard a million times in his life, but the way it comes out of Soul reminds him of the six-year-old boy he stayed up with to comfort when the nightmares first started.

"I promise," Wes confirms.

He stands from the bed and grabs the edges of the blanket.

"Get some rest," he says. "Everything'll be better in the morning. I promise."

Soul nods and allows Wes to bury him beneath the blanket. Once his brother's settled, he leans over to where the faded stuffed shark is squished between the mattress and the wall and slides between Soul's folded arms. He waits another minute or two for Soul's breathing to even out and slow before leaving to go back to his own bed.

* * *

The next day at work while he's on his lunch, Wes receives a text from Liz asking if it's safe for her to call him. His mind immediately goes straight to the gutter because it's Liz, the girl he's had an on again, off again fling with for the last three years. He silently chuckles to himself as he types out a response.

[[ I'm on my lunch, but my co-workers can still hear me moaning. I'm not quiet you know. ]]

[[ trust me, I know. ]]

He doesn't respond because the next second, his phone rings.

"Liz, I can't do dirty talk right now," he greets.

"Good because that isn't why I'm calling, perv," she sighs. "I'm at work, too, you know? And I work in a _high school_ , and I'd rather not have my students hear me talking about spanking your ass."

"Then why are you calling?"

"I wanna talk about Soul." There's a short pause on the other end. "I'm worried about him."

Sitting his fork down, he nods even though she can't see him. "Yeah. Me too."

"I met him for lunch yesterday, and he didn't seem okay. He was the usual moody Soul that we all know and love, but there was something off about him. How're things at the apartment?"

"Same like before except…," he trails off, briefly debating whether or not to tell her about the nightmares. He isn't sure if she knows or not, and he doesn't want to relay a secret of Soul's without his permission. It almost feels like he's crossing a patient/doctor line even if Soul isn't his patient.

"He's been having restless nights again," he says.

Liz at least knows his brother has trouble sleeping sometimes.

"Do you think he's having nightmares again?"

"You know about them?"

She hums. "He told me about them a couple years ago when we were in college. Come to think of it, he wasn't sleeping then either, and not because he was doing all-nighters," she clarifies. "I think it was because he was stressed out of his mind."

"You think he's stressed?"

"Could be."

Wes doesn't comment.

Rather, he sighs in response.

Deep down, he knows Liz is right because it's the only logical solution as to why his brother's nightmares have returned. It's the same reason they had started when they were kids. Their father put too much emphasis on perfecting his piano playing to the point it became a sickness; Soul dreamt of performing in front of audiences who ridiculed him and booed him off stage. He dreamt of the demon pouring tar around his feet so that Soul could never move and was forced to play piano for eternity.

But the nagging voice in the back of his mind refuses to acknowledge the proof being laid out in front of him.

"Soul's fine, Liz," he says, leaning back in his chair and scratching the edge of his desk. "He's just a little down in the dumps since he can't find a job. That's all."

Liz sighs, and he practically feels the irritation buzzing off her through the line. "Wes, you and I both know he isn't. I'm worried about him. You remember the last time he was like this, and how bad it got then. I don't want it to come down to that."

His heart twists at how quiet her voice grows when she says the last part.

"I'll talk to him at dinner and see if he's really doing okay."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

A pause falls between them in which she lowly blows out, telling Wes she's on a smoke breaks. He almost wants to remind her the dangers of cigarettes and the influence she has on her students if they were to see her, but he doesn't. She's a grown woman; she can do whatever she damn well pleases. Plus, he's sure she's taken the right precautions so no one - not her students, the principal, or other staff - finds her.

"Don't be like your dad, and ignore this shit, she says, her tone strong and powerful. "Soul's fucked up in the head. If he is going through a setback, he needs someone there to help him out of it. Don't fuck it up, Wes."

"I won't, Liz. I'll take care of my little brother like you take care of Patti."

She snorts. "Good. I gotta go, but I'll text you later, ya?"

"Yeah, okay. Talk to you later."

Hanging up the phone, he rests it on top of his des, cups his chin in his hands, and stares out the window directly in front of him. Wes has seen many patients sit across from him, telling him their journey with mental illness and seeking methods of coping with it from him. He's been people's lifeline; has helped guide them on the road to recovery and been there for them when they fall back into the same old routines as before.

Liz is right; he needs to help his brother and not ignore the blatant issue in front of him. Soul isn't okay like he wants to believe.

He only wishes his schooling had prepared him for caring for a family member's mental illness.

* * *

Soul lays in bed staring at the ceiling, doing nothing. His body feels numb, his senses are dull, but his mind is moving a mile a minute. Thoughts of him being a worthless human being who has no purpose repeat over and over in his head to the point where he starts to accept it. There's no rebuttal, no excuse he can think of to silence them because they're right. He's a useless part of society who deserves to disappear.

A ding sounds from his open laptop, and he's reminded of how he found himself in this position.

To no one's surprise, he had received another rejection letter. This one, though, was one he had been so sure he'd be offered an interview for since it was in his area of expertise. A spot on the orchestra there in the city; the perfect job for him. While it isn't what he wants to do for the rest of his life - he always imagined himself a teacher or original composer - it was better than nothing. It also would have given him the opportunity to prove his worth as an Evans and uphold the Evans family name by following in the footsteps of his ancestors before him which is probably why it hurts so much to not even get an _interview_.

 _You're a disgrace to the family_ , his father's words echo in his head. _You'll amount to nothing of worth or prosperity in this industry. You're a failure._

Closing his eyes, Soul feels two tears roll over his cheeks on either side and the cold stab of a dagger as it twists in his chest. He has no counters against the whispers in his head because they're all true. He isn't worth a damn thing. He's a black mark on the Evans name, a bronze thread in their golden family tree. He's nothing. Absolutely nothing. He doesn't deserve to live or breathe the same air as his family.

 _Maybe you should off yourself_ , comes a deep, sinister voice.

His eyes snap open at the sound.

Pushing himself off the bed, Soul searches his room for a source. The voice felt too real, too near, to be disembodied, but he finds nothing. Everything in his room remains the same as it always has been from the familiar portable keyboard he keeps propped up in the corner to the chair littered with dirty clothes. There's no sign that someone else is there with him. He doesn't see the checkered floors or the burgundy curtains or dusk dusted church furnishings. It's the same as it's always been.

Save for the goosebumps on his arms and the chill along his spine like something - or someone - is watching him from the dark corners.

Soul presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until they hurt. He steadies his breathing and rapid beating heart, begging his nerves to calm themselves. _None of it is real; he's safe, none of it is real; he's safe, none of it is real; he's safe_. Repeats over and over in his head like a prayer for salvation, but no matter how hard he tries, it still doesn't convince him.

"Soul?" comes his brothers voice followed by two knocks, startling Soul out of his mantra. "You awake in there?"

He inhales steadily through his nose and exhales from his mouth, counting to ten in an attempt to calm himself. Wes isn't the type of person to ignore the obvious signs of torment etched on Soul's face especially after having grown up together and dwelling in conjoining rooms. Out of everyone in his life, his brother's the one who can detect when Soul isn't okay, and Soul isn't much in the mood to receive _the look_ from him.

"Soul?" Wes says again.

The doorknob jiggles slightly from Wes' hand resting on it prompting Soul to lean his head back and dig up his best disgruntled facial expression.

After saying a silent prayer to himself, Soul says at the same time the door opens, "Course I'm awake. How do you expect me to sleep with your loud mouth checking up on me?"

"Nice to see Sleeping Beauty's as normal as ever," Wes mumbles to himself. "I wanted to let you know I'm heading out for work. I'll probably be at the office all day 'cause I'm pretty booked up, and I'm mentoring some students today. So all three of your meals are your choice, but my treat. There's thirty bucks on the table for you."

"Cool. Means I can pig out on junk food without your gross face judging me," he says, giving his brother an award winning smirk.

Wes rolls his eyes. "Your health's gonna hate you later on. Don't stay in bed all day."

"I'll try not to."

"Also, why do you have it so dark in here? Did someone die or something? Open a window or the blinds or something. Get some sunlight in here. You'll ruin your vision if you stay like this."

"Thanks, _mom_."

"I'm only saying it because I care, Soul."

"You can care a little less," he says under his breath.

"We both know that'll never happen." Wes pauses to check his watch. "Okay. I gotta get going if I don't wanna get stuck in traffic. Be good. See you later."

"See ya."

His brother turns to close the door, but hesitates.

Before Soul can ask him what's wrong, Wes says without sparing a glance at him, "Things'll all work out in the end. You know that, right?"

Confusion washes over Soul at his brother's question, completely taken aback by the choice of words surrounding it. Maybe there's a chance Wes knows he's gone off his meds and stopped seeing his psychologist, and Soul almost blurts everything out on the spot. But he doesn't. The fact his brother is skilled in this particular area of expertise also builds on his suspension that he knows, but Soul's also aware of how dense and logical Wes can be at times. How often has it Soul been the smarter brother when it comes to certain situations because he knows better than Wes to not do something unless he wants to get seriously hurt?

Far too many.

Summing up to Wes being a typical psychologist, Soul snorts. "You don't have to treat me like I'm one of your patients, you know? I'm fine. I'll find a job… eventually."

Tapping his fingers on the doorknob, Wes nods and half-smiles. "I'm sure you will. Just don't give up, okay? Call me if you need anything."

The ' _Or if you want to talk_ ' is left floating in the air when he closes the door.

Soul falls back to his mattress. He combs his fingers through his hair, watching patches of yellow sunlight dance across his ceiling as they break through his tightly closed blinds. They're the bits of light begging to wash away the darkness, but he refuses to let them. He doesn't deserve their help. His grave is slowly being dug as time ticks on, waiting for its owner to finally succumb and disappear from the earth, and to finally put his family out of its misery. No one will miss the worthless son who can't amount to anything or even compare to the success of his brother.

There may be a few tears at his funeral, but it won't last long. They'll forget him.

All it'll take is time.

A buzzing right by his ear startles Soul from his daze and blindly snatches at it. Bringing it to his face, he sees Liz's name in a text bubble with her message of concern following suit; a simple conversation starter asking if he's okay. Soul types a quick response back that he hopes will settle her worry before dropping his hand back down. He isn't completely heartless to the point where his brother's and friend's words have no affect on him, but he does know they're done with poor results.

He's a weak link in society whose time is almost up.

The sooner they realize that, the better.

* * *

The absolute last place Soul should be is on social media. Seeing post after post of his friends successes does nothing to soothe him or help him with his own misfortune. They only serve to be an unwelcome reminder of how behind he is. Liz rants about her students, how snotty and rude they are, but she still holds onto hope they'll do good. Kilik's younger siblings both graduated middle school and are entering high school while he's undergoing a Master's degree in Engineering. Kim and Jackie announce their engagement with a photo album filled with photos highlighting the couples relationship.

It sickens Soul. The whole lot of his friends from college. They're off having wonderful careers and lives while he's stuck in a cramped apartment mooching off his brother. This isn't exactly how he pictured his life after graduation; he had hoped he'd be working as a musician and performing at different venues, getting his music out into the world.

Soul rests his head on the table after seeing the tenth happy post that day and closes his eyes. His heart feels hallow, empty, as if he's missing out on being a part of everyone's lives. He wishes he could join them in their happiness, celebrate his own successes, but he's a nobody, a good for nothing bum who can't land a job interview. He's better off leaving this world and entering the next. Who needs someone like him to take up space for those who are more talented than him, more ambitious, more go-getters.

He sucks in a deep breath and tenses as claws wrap around his arms. The hairs on his neck rise as he feels something grow closer and closer to him until he can feel their hot, sticky breath slap against his neck. His stomach tightens as he tries to remember if he's dreaming or not. It feels like he's fallen into one of his nightmares. He practically hears the scratchy jazz music thump in his chest, vibrating in his heart, and turning his blood inky black. Even the cackling voice of the Oni sounds real.

"Why don't you just do it, Soul-boy?" the demon asks. "Kill yourself. Take your own life. It'll make Wes' life a hell of a lot easier without you to worry about. Think about how much happier he'll be."

The corners of Soul's mouth turn up into a wicked grin as he says, "It would, wouldn't it?"

"It's not like he'll miss you. So why not do it? You've been wanting to do it for a long time, haven't you?"

"I have."

"It's not like you have anyone else."

"I don't."

"Everyone else is moving on in their lives. They have families, careers, happiness. They've all forgotten little Soul, the musician who never was. None of them will care if you kill yourself. None of them will even notice. You'll disappear from this planet completely. How good does that sound?"

"Wonderful."

"So do it," the demon purrs, and a chill runs down Soul's spine like a spiders web. It's cold and tingly, spreading dread across his body as it goes. "Kill yourself."

A buzz on the table next to him startles Soul awake. He glances around the kitchen in a mad frantic in search for the demon or any sign of someone else in the apartment, but finds no one. It's still only him. His heart pounds in his chest as he relaxes against the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. So it indeed was a dream.

The chill and dread running through his body still remains, though.

Along with the idea the demon planted in his brain which scares Soul more than he'd like to admit. It's been so long since he's thought of suicide and actually wanted to do it. Years, in fact. Since he had started seeing a therapist and taken medication for his depression and anxiety.

Soul's phone buzzes again, drawing his attention to where it lays on the table a few feet from him. He reaches it to see two texts from Liz. One asks if he's alright while the other asks if he's even awake.

He doesn't respond as he gets up, gathers his things, and leaves.

* * *

Wes' first client of the day is someone he's worked with for the past year. The youngest client he's had to date since joining the group of psychologists he shares the building with and one of his harder clients. He's a boy of about sixteen whose parents admitted him immediately after a failed suicide attempt via drug overdose merely hours after the hospital discharged him. They had brought him to Wes for two reasons.

The first being Wes' specialty focused on adolescences and young adults. He had spent his undergrad and graduate years reading every article and study that had been done on the age range, and they felt he had the best expertise in the area. The second reason they chose Wes was because they had somehow hoped with his extensive background he could cure their son.

Sadly, that wasn't the case.

There's no curing mental illness. He had told the boys parents that countless of times over the last year after they continuously asked him if their son was better. Mental illness isn't like cancer or the flu. It's something that lives with people forever, something that's sometimes passed down through generations. Their son will never be cured of his depression or the desire to kill himself. His only hope is to learn to live with it, to understand what his brain is thinking, and take the medication his psychiatrist gives him.

But no matter how many times Wes tells the kids parents that, they still push Wes to cure him.

They remind him of another set of parents he knows far too well.

"Alright. Our time's almost up, but I do want to ask you one more question, Andrew," Wes says in his chair across from his client. No desk or table between them. He likes to keep an open environment when seeing young people.

Andrew only stares at him in response so he continues.

"Are you feeling these sessions are helping you?"

"Yeah," Andrew shrugs. "I like talking to you. You actually listen. My mom and dad, they..." he trails off and sighs. "They keep telling me I'll get better and I won't have to keep coming to see you, but seeing you helps me. I haven't thought about suicide since coming here and that makes me happy."

"I'm glad to hear that," Wes says with a sympathetic smile. "I wish I could help your parents, too, but if you ever need me or someone to talk to when you aren't scheduled to, you're more than welcome to drop by. I can make time for you."

"Thank you, Dr. Evans."

"You're welcome." Wes glances at the clock again and stands. "I'll see you next month? Same day, same time?"

"For sure." Andrew shakes his hand before Wes guides him back out to the reception area where his next client sits.

A few hours later, while Wes is on his break, he searches for information packets to give to Andrew's parents to help them understand. Andrew reminds him so much of Soul he can't help to feel the need to assist him with his home life in some way. He's seen first hand what the stress of trying to live up to family members expectations can do to a kid. He saw the way it destroyed Soul, the way his music changed to a more somber and depressing mood. He heard his brother scream in the dead of night after one of his nightmares, saw him struggle with trying to keep up with those around him.

Wes knows how difficult it can be for someone Andrew's age, and he feels it's his duty as his psychiatrist to help him.

Exactly like it's his duty as Soul's brother to help him when he needs it. When Soul is ready to talk and ask for assistance.

After this morning's encounter, he isn't entirely sure when that'll be, if ever.

* * *

Soul sits on some rocks in a secluded section of the beach, watching the waves as they kiss the sand before going back out again. The air tastes of salty and humidity, sticking to his skin, but he feels a small sense of ease wash over him. He's always found the ocean calming, soothing from the sound of the waves racing each other to reach land to only drift away once again to the dark blue that goes on for miles and miles. It feels like an endless road lays in front of him. A road he can get lost in and forget about all his troubles as he lets it take him away.

A road he can drown in without anyone finding his body for a long time.

The thought tempts him as he sits there. He can easily walk out into the ocean, let it carry him away, and lose himself beneath her crashing waves without anyone knowing he's gone. There won't be a body until an unlucky fisherman reels him with the their latest catch for the day. No one will know he's gone missing. No one will care. It's the easiest form of suicide he can think of.

It's quick, easy, and clean. There's no blood for someone to clean up, no wounds to hide when they prep his body.

His phone buzzes for the fifth time that day, and Soul pulls it out of his pocket to see another text from Liz. It's in the same format as the other ones she sent him earlier. A generic greeting, a comment about how her day was, and the familiar question he's read over and over since he left the house a few hours ago. _How are things with you?_

For all intents and purposes, her concern is sweet and touching. It keeps the last glimpse of hope he holds in his heart before the darkness completely consumes him to think someone in his life cares, but that's where it stops. They're still empty words, empty cares, and they can't reach him completely. He's gone, lost. He's walked into the ocean and let it take him to the next life.

He stares back to the ocean, and Soul swears he sees the demon grinning back at him in the reflection of the waves.

* * *

A couple days have passed since he saw Andrew when Wes gets a phone call during his lunch break from Liz.

"Glad to hear from you again," he says in greeting. "How long has it been? A week? A month? A year, perhaps?"

"Chill. It's only been two weeks since I last called you. I've been busy with things at the school so I haven't had a chance to call until now."

"What's the occasion? Kids away or are you taking a smoke break on the roof again? What will your boss say when he finds out?"

"Kid'll get over it. Him and his perfectionist ass can handle a little cigarette debris on the roof. It's not like he doesn't come up here anyways."

"My, my, Liz. Aren't you a terrible influence."

"I thought you had a thing for the wild types," she says, her smug grin practically shining in her voice.

"Are you flirting with me, Miss Thompson," Wes says with a smile. "I have to warn you, I'm at work and these doors aren't exactly sound proof so I'll have to keep my moaning to a minimum."

There's a pause long enough for Wes to be concerned he lost connection with her.

"Sorry, buddy," Liz says with a small sigh, "but I'm kinda with someone already, and last I checked, she's not into the whole threesome thing."

Wes lightly laughs, his smile transforming from smug to genuine happiness for his friend. "Congrats. Is this one serious?"

"Might be. Only been with her for two weeks, but she's pretty damn special." A pause. "Guess you gotta put your dick in someone else now."

"So long as you're happy and she treats you right, I'm willing to sacrifice."

"Good lucking guy like you can probably find a hot piece of ass to screw around with in a heartbeat."

"Won't be as hot as yours," he says smugly.

Liz sighs. It's annoyed, but still has a softness to it he recognizes as flattered. "That's enough shitty mushy stuff and time for the serious shit. I called for a reason."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I called to ask how Soul's doing. He isn't answering any of my texts or calls, and I'm worried. Is he still good?"

Wes sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

Soul hasn't changed much since a couple days ago. He still mopes around the house, hasn't showered since Saturday, and refuses to eat a single thing. Wes had to push him to the bathroom to get him to brush his teeth and put water in his hair so it looked somewhat decent compared to the tangled mess it was in when he woke up. His brother's slow decline into depression is obvious, and Wes knows what it looks like better than anyone. If Soul keeps it up, he isn't going to do much better.

"He went off his meds," Wes tells her somberly.

"Shit," Liz hisses. "I knew there was something fucked up going with him when we met a while back, but he didn't tell me anything. Why the fuck did he go off his meds? He knows better."

"Your guess is as good as mine. Soul isn't exactly on speaking terms with me right now, either. Every time I ask him about his therapy sessions and his medication, he pushes me away. I've even asked if he's doing okay."

"And what does he say?"

"The same thing normal Soul says."

Another pause falls between them.

"Do you think it's worse compared to last time this happened?" Liz asks after a while.

He remembers the time Liz is talking about, back when they were in college together.

Back when she found him in his room in tears because the stress of his first semester in college wasn't something he had anticipated. Back when their parents were lecturing Soul every day about how his pursuit of being a music teacher was idiotic and he'll never make money off it. Back when Wes wasn't around to help him. It had been Liz who helped push him to realize he needed help and guidance to be better and get through college.

Now, it's Wes' turn.

"I'm not entirely sure, to be truthful with you," he tells her. "But I'm watching him, and I'm making sure he doesn't go to the deep end."

"Don't let him leave us, Wes," Liz says. Her voice is broken, cracked, and his own heart pains at the sound of it. "Promise me that, okay?"

"I promise."

* * *

Later that night when Wes arrives home, he finds Soul sprawled on the couch in nothing but his sleep pants. He smells a faint scent of body odor mixed with pizza as he walks into the apartment and wrinkles his nose. Soul doesn't take notice to him as he sets his keys in the bowl they keep by the door or when he takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coat hanger. He doesn't even budge when Wes rests on the couch next to him.

Wes takes the moment to observe him, notice how he stares at the TV without soaking anything in. He looks like a corpse, and Wes almost thinks he's walked into an opening episode of The Walking Dead if it isn't for the slight rise and fall of Soul's chest.

"You doing okay, little brother?" Wes asks, startling Soul out of whatever daze he had been.

Soul breathes in heavily through his nose, blinking a few times as he looks at Wes back to the TV, and runs a hand through his greasy hair.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seemed a little out of it there for a while. I wanted to make sure you're still part of the land of the living."

His brother's eyes shift quickly at the word _living_. A habit Wes is familiar with.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just thought I was part of a zombie movie when I walked in you were so spaced out." To lighten some of the tension, Wes says, "You haven't started taking weed, have you?"

"Fuck you. You know I haven't touched that shit in years."

Wes puts his palms out in surrender. "Not saying I would blame you. It's good stuff. All I would say is be careful and only smoke in the house. You can't really trust cops nowadays."

"Thanks, but I'm not taking drugs."

"Not any?" Wes pauses before saying, "Not even the ones your doctor prescribes you?"

He doesn't say anything.

Instead, Soul stands up and heads toward his room. "I'm going to bed. Night."

"It's barely six o'clock," Wes says.

"Yeah, and I'm tired," Soul mutters under his breath loud enough for Wes to hear.

"At least take a shower later, okay? You stink."

There's no response save for the closing Soul's bedroom door, and Wes sighs. Soul isn't okay, but there is't anything he can do to help when his brother insists on pushing him away. He's helpless when he gets like this.

* * *

The dream tonight is one he's familiar with.

Soul wakes to see himself sitting at a black grand piano sitting in the middle of a stage. The black curtains are pulled tightly in front of him, but he can still hear the crowd muttering in loud whispers on the other side. Near the edge of the stage, he sees Wes talking to their parents, their faces are shrouded in darkness but from their body language Soul can tell what they're talking about isn't good. He can guess what the conversation is about; the same one his brother argued about with them for years, a whole decade.

His brother is defending him and telling their parents how much help Soul needs.

It's the same thing every time he relives this nightmare.

Glancing around him, Soul searches for the demon. He checks for an imprint of the imps face on the curtains, somewhere hiding in the shadows grinning for him, up on light fixtures controlling the strings attached to Soul, but comes up empty. The imp is nowhere to be found. Odd considering this is the little demons favorite nightmare Soul has and always seems to make an appearance.

He doesn't have long to mull it over as the curtains draw back to reveal the audience. They stare at Soul, he stares back, someone coughs, and a murmuring slowly starts from the front and flows toward the back. Soul turns his gaze on his parents; his brother has long since disappeared. His parents wave their hands to egg him on, telling him it's time to play, and Soul rests his hands over the ivory keys. The same keys he's played for years upon years, but a heavy dread sits in the pit of his belly this time because they won't like his music.

It's changed; _he's_ changed.

Still, that doesn't prevent him pressing down on the first chord. A G minor, a rouse to have the audience believe he's sane and controlled, and expect him to play Mozart's finest symphony he's practiced for the last few months. But the chords that follow are not the ones of Mozart's 40th Symphony. They're one's Soul has written himself over the last few months while he was cooped up in his room dealing with the worse of his depression.

The music he plays is evil and demonic, rising in pitch the further he goes along and growing more and more sinister with each passing second. Soul feels the chords vibrate in his fingers as they fly across the keyboards, his back slowing hunching over as he feels himself falling into the madness. His song is the product of a nightmare when demons and monsters take over the night, rising from the ground as the devil himself encourages them to ride and create chaos over the world. He doesn't need to see his parents face to know they're horrified. How can their precious son perform something so evil?

Easily, he thinks.

Since of course his music is the result of their own mischoosings and pressures.

As he grows near the climax of the song, Soul feels an evil presence crawl on stage behind him. He feels the stage cave in as the creature takes tentative steps toward him, feels its hot, sticky breath fill the air around him. The audience doesn't acknowledge it with gasps nor screams. It's a creature that's come for him and solely for him. Soul gladly welcomes it.

His hands halt in their playing as something grabs a hold of his back and drags him down, but rather than the floor, Soul is met with inky blood similar to the one from his previous nightmare. It wraps around his chest like spiderwebs, thin, and pulls him into a gaping hole where the demons stomach should be. Soul's mouth opens in a silent scream as he falls back, back into the darkness; his lungs fill with the black blood making it difficult for him to breath. He's suffocating, dying.

The last thing he sees is the imps grinning face, those hollow pupils gleaming as Soul succumbs to the inevitable.

* * *

Soul wakes crying.

Hot tears roll down his cheeks as he blinks himself awake. His heart aches in his chest and he feels pressure sitting on top of him while he lays there and lets them flow on their own accord. Crying helps, though he doesn't know why he's crying. Maybe it's because the stress and pressure he's been holding within himself this last month has become too much or maybe it's a result of the impending doom he faces if he doesn't change something. Whatever it is, the crying helps.

He feels the tension slowly leave his body with each wracking sob that escapes passed his lips. The fears he had felt before going to bed dissipate within the tears and his body shakes off the stress. It's a relief, really, to feel this way. It reminds him he's human and real and alive. It reminds him he does still feel pain and lonesome and has emotions that are real. He's real. Where he's at right now is real; this isn't a dream or a daydream or some twisted form of reality. This is a real, true, and emotional thing he's undergoing currently, and it hurts.

It hurts so good.

After a while, once the crying has calmed down, Soul crawls out of bed and goes to the bathroom where he washes his face and looks at himself in the mirror. Red rims around the pupils of his eyes making him look more demonic than normal or like someone's shitty devil Halloween costume, but it's still him. He still has his white, bedhead induced hair, the oblique scar over his chest, and his razor sharp teeth. There are no scratches on his arms, no cuts or bruises; no sign of abuse or harm.

But a part of him still feels _empty_.

"God, you're one fucked up kid, aren't you?" he mutters to himself. Sighing, he says, "And you need help."

The word sits thick and heavy over his heart as he says it. _Help_. He's been sustaining his downward spiral by himself for far too long, and he needs help from those who offer it to him.

* * *

Wes watches as Soul slinks around the apartment the next day. Calculates the way he moves and keeps a keen eye on him without alerting his brother to his presence. He studies his brother's face, noting the black circles outlining the underside of his eyes, the way they droop more than normal, and he finally decides to fuck it all. Fuck waiting for his brother to come to him and ask for help. Fuck sitting around doing jack shit to help his brother. Forcing someone to listen to him isn't exactly the ideal tactic a therapist should go about when treating a patient, but this is his brother, dammit.

And he'll be damned if he has to make funeral arrangements for his twenty-one year old brother.

"Let's go for a ride," Wes announces. He grabs the spare house key to their Gran's house and turns and smiles at his brother. "How about we get away for the day. Leave city life and enjoy Gran's garden for a bit? You'd like that, right?"

Their Gran's house, specifically her garden, had always been a sanctuary for Soul. When their parents would fight and argue with the elderly woman about the proper way to care for their sons (mostly Soul), the garden was the one place Wes knew he would find his brother, and it never surprised him. The flowers the woman grew and planted were done with love and sunshine. She cared for each one by hand, took the time to water them, and had even shown Soul how to care for his own section of the garden where red anemones grew in abundance.

Wes hopes seeing the garden and Soul's flowers again will help his brother.

Soul lazily lifts his gaze to meet his brothers and shrugs.

"Come on. It'll be good for you," Wes says, and he drags Soul out of the house and into their car.

* * *

Soul presses his face against the window as he watches the trees roll by in a green blur.

He has a feeling he knows why Wes suddenly decided to drive up to their Gran's house, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead he stays cooped up in his head, replaying the last month over and over in his head, viewing the decay of his mind. The way his depression worsened over time. It all plays inside his head like an old movie reel from the 1920's, blending into the background of the trees, and it's time for him to come clean with his brother.

Especially when Wes is going to the effort of taking him to the one place that makes Soul happy.

And if he can't trust his brother to help him, who can he trust?

The car comes to a halt in the driveway, the gear shift clicking into place as it's placed in park, and Wes sighs. Soul slowly pushes himself from the window to look at his brother who's smiling wide at him.

"Haven't been here in a long time, huh? Since before you graduated college," Wes says in a poor attempt to make conversation. "You excited to see the garden?"

"I guess," Soul shrugs.

Wes nods and unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his door. Soul doesn't do the same, though, and stops his brother from stepping out and leaving him there.

"Are you proud of me?" Soul asks, not making eye contact with Wes.

There's a short pause between them before he hears the driver side door close and the squeaking of the seat as Wes faces him.

"What are you talking about? Of course I'm proud of you. Why wouldn't I be?" Wes asks.

"Because I still haven't found a job, and I've been spending the past year mooching off you. You're paying for me to continue living." Soul swallows. "Isn't it kinda a burden?"

"Soul," Wes says after a moment, placing his hand on his brother's shoulder, "I know you're trying to find a job, and I know how hard it can be. Do you think I got to where I'm at straight out of college? I didn't. I had to sleep on my friends couches for a good two months before I finally landed _something_. And I know the same is true for you. You'll find something eventually."

"That's the problem, though." Soul stares at the dashboard as he says, "I don't want to wait for an _eventually_. I want something _now_. Everyone I went to college with have careers ahead of them, and I feel like I'm stuck in the same place, mooching off my brother because he's too kind for his own good. I feel like everyone is judging me because they know I'm not successful. Soul Evans the college graduate who can't find a job like the rest of his family because they disowned him. The family fuck up and disappointment."

"You're not a-"

"But that's what it _feels_ like." Soul faces his brother and fights back the last remnants of tears stinging his eyes. "It feels like everyone's judging me and laughing at me behind my back. Like they're encouraging me to screw up and end up sad and alone, and I hate it. I just want to feel like I belong in this stupid society and be a helping hand in it… I'm tired of feeling like a fuck up."

Another pause falls between them.

The car is completely silent, but the birds chirping outside and the low whistle of the trees can still be heard, and Soul feels a calm ease over him at the sound.

"I know it's hard to see it right now, but things are going to get better," Wes says. His face is more somber than before, more serious. "You just gotta hold on which I know is tough right now for you to believe, but you gotta trust me when I say you're gonna survive this. I know you hate seeing your friends be successful and live their lives, but you're gonna get there one day. It's just taking a little more time for you. You aren't gonna feel like a fuck up forever, and if it's any consolation, I don't think you're a burden. You're a kid straight out of college who's seeing that it isn't as easy as your professors made it seem, and that's okay."

Wes gives Soul's should a gentle squeeze, and the calm Soul felt before washes over him. Something hot slides down his cheek. When he goes to brush it off, Soul is surprised to find its wet.

"Just know that however long it takes you, no matter how many times you feel worthless and insignificant, I'm always gonna be here for you. I won't desert you like our parents did. I love you, Soul. You know that, right?"

Soul turns his face away as another tear rolls down his cheek and he sniffs. A weird sense of love and adoration falls over him, and he feels silly for even believing Wes didn't care before. Wes his brother, the one who didn't turn his back on Soul when he went to a public university rather than Juilliard like his parents had wished, and not once tried to push Soul away when he needed help. He's always been there for Soul. Either standing in the shadows while he performed a song or in the audience; Wes never gave up.

"Come on. Let's go see the garden. I heard Gran finished that pond she told you about last year. The one by the flowers you had planted forever ago."

He can only nod in response, not trusting his voice.

His brother opens the driver side door and exits.

Before he closes it, Soul says, "Thank you, Wes."

* * *

Gran's pond is beautiful. It sits right on the edge of where the anemones he planted when he was fifteen are, the red petals reaching out over the water and exposing the white and purple middles. He remember when his Gran gave them to him she had said they were like tiny versions of Soul. The red for his eyes, white for his hair, and purple for his devotion.

A koi fish comes to the surface of the pond, and Soul smiles.

* * *

Soul ends up applying for the position at the school where Liz works at and gets it after an interesting interview with the principal Theodore Kidman. Though young to be a principal, he runs the school under a tight schedule and knows his shit and Soul respects him for it. He can be neurotic at times, yes, but Liz promises Soul Kid isn't so bad so long as you never call him Theodore. Apparently the guy hates his first name and refuses to go by it. Ever. Another aspect about Soul he can respect considering there are plenty of times he'd rather not be called by his last name.

The school isn't where he ultimately wants to be, but it's a good start.

He feels lighter, happier on the first day of classes, and Wes has assured him plenty of times before things will only go up from here. There are still some nights where he's plagued by nightmares and stays up until five in the morning after enduring one, but they aren't as intense as before. Soul started going back to therapy, asked his doctor to renew his medications, and he started taking them again and the combination of the two (therapy and meds) help him. His journey is far from over, but he knows he'll survive because Wes is there for him every step of the way.

There's always a rainbow after the storm. He only needs to survive and ask for help to see it.

"Welcome to the first day of class," Soul tells his students. "I'm Mr. Evans, and I'll be your new music teacher for the year. Let's make it a good one."


End file.
